


The Goblet

by Rimetin



Series: Fallen Hero: odds and ends [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Minor Violence, Other, Revenge, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimetin/pseuds/Rimetin
Summary: You’ve always visualized emotions as drops falling into a goblet.Sidestep is... not ok.Originally postedon tumblr.





	The Goblet

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: abuse (including sexual), self harm, suicidal imagery. Spoilers.
> 
> This... ended up in a different place than I originally intended. Make of that what you will.

 

You’ve always visualized emotions as drops falling into a goblet. 

You stored the goblet in your chest, and held it gingerly, careful not to disturb the surface. Sometimes the goblet filled up fast and spilled, or a particularly large drop splashed into it and had the rest flowing over the edges. Sometimes it was dry, pristine as if never used. 

You told no one when it stopped emptying, stale remnants of things you shouldn’t even have clinging to the glass and refusing to let go.

You wonder now if you should have, when you wrestle with the nothing that is everything around you. Trapped among the cables and pervasive smell of death. Someone calls your name, but you don’t hear it.

The goblet shatters together with the window.

 

\----------

 

The figure in the mirror is not you.

You deliver a sharp right hook and shatter it, the image fracturing and specking with red. You don’t feel the shards in your hand.

The goblet inside you, as crudely glued back together as your very person, shudders. You will it to still, the churning depths to cool down, to wait.

Not today. Today is not the day you boil over.

Not even when the dozen eyes stare at you with vengeance, dark and different in color than what you remember. Not when the cropped hair is still too short to not remind you of the cables, the medical equipment, white labcoats and cold, silent facilities. Not when the ugly lines glow neon against your skin, crude imitation of a barcode marking you as a  _thing_ , not a person.

No. Not today.

You have too much left to do. 

 

\----------

 

The goblet nearly topples over when your name is called, by a voice familiar yet alien. You choke and drop your fork, getting chocolate and crumbs all over your lap.

You don’t need telepathy to know what he’s thinking. He trickles in through the cracks in the goblet, filling it to the brim, and it takes all you have to keep it from overflowing. 

He doesn’t even notice.

With great difficulty you suppress the urge to toss the rest of your cake all over his fancy suit.

 

\----------

 

You’d forgotten how this feels. You’ve been choking on everything for so long, crumbled under the feelings and thoughts only a fraction of which are even your own, that you forgot how to breathe.

Or maybe you never truly felt this before.

The car alarm is a faint hum in your ears, perfect background music for the scene before you: straight out of a classical painting. The protector broken, his wings clipped, crushed into the scorched earth - and his conqueror standing over him. Herald’s perfect hair is matted with blood and his pale face quickly growing black and blue. His body is contorted in a grotesque angle, framed perfectly by the deflated airbags of the wrecked car. If it weren’t for the barely audible wheezing that is his breath, you’d think he was dead.

You paint a similar picture with Ortega moments later. The suit is your paintbrush, and the cameras your canvas. His arm is twisted in a way no human limb ever should. His bronzed face is marred with blood and sweat and soot. His lip is split up to his mustache, tearing clean through it: it might look comical if it weren’t so grisly.

You look upon the unconscious form and feel... nothing.

The goblet empties of its last drops. 

 

\----------

 

Fingertips on bare skin.  _His_ fingertips on  _your_ bare skin. 

And then not his. 

You can’t breathe.

He feels you freeze and pulls away, radiating alarm and concern, but you are far away. 

Rough hands holding you down. Covering your mouth. Smell of sweat and heat and something pungent and you want to gag. Your skin blurs with the neon lines crossing it and it looks like flames, unwelcome hands and lips and other parts leaving invisible burns. 

You can’t move. 

Your body is numb and your mind is trapped by the low thrum of the ever-present jammers.  _Stop,_  you silently scream, but your thoughts hit the brick wall designed to cut you off from every other living mind.

Not that anyone would listen.

The cracks in the goblet grow deeper.

 

\----------

 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, like he understands anything. Like he can relate.

The carefully balanced goblet inside of you overflows, emotions spilling over as a waterfall. You can’t control it. You don’t want to.

“ _Don’t have_  to do this?“ you hiss with such vehemence that he takes a step back. So you step closer.

“You don’t know  _anything_. Not about them, not about me.“ You take another two steps, and to his credit, he stays still. He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “If you did, you wouldn’t say that. You’d know they deserve worse than what I’m about to do to them.“ You narrow your eyes at him, the waterfall inside of you turned to bitter bile. “If you truly were my friend, you’d  _join_ me.”

“If I--“ He draws in a sharp breath and reaches out for you. You catch his arm, but meet his eyes. You’re so clouded by your own emotions, breaking free after such a long time, that you can’t interpret his.

“Cy, all I’ve ever wanted was to be your friend!“ He closes the distance between you with one last step, but doesn’t pull his arm free. “I’ve never cared more about anyone else. It was always you.“

“You don’t know me!“ You spit out. The neon tattoos visible on your outstretched arm are a painful reminder of that.

“But I do!“ So like him to contest you. He reaches for your shoulder with his other hand, but you catch it too, and hold both of his wrists. He looks at you in desperation. “Listen, I  _don’t care_  what you are. That you’re not-- your  _origin_  doesn’t determine your humanity!“

You’re taken aback, and he takes that chance. “Cy, please. You don’t have to do this. Don’t do to them what they did to you. Together, we--“

“And instead do what?“ You realize you’re digging your nails into his arms, but you don’t care. Your chest feels like it’s about to explode. “Run? Live elsewhere?  _I tried that._  You saw what happened." You can see the realization in his eyes and raise your voice. “They will never leave me alone as long as I live!“

He understands. And it hurts him. Seeing that, finally, proof of what you already knew: that he could never see eye to eye with you on this, is a soft rope around your neck. The one you always knew you would hang yourself on, but right now he’s the one pulling it tighter.

You release his wrists, his skin momentarily white where your fingers dug in, the tiny red scratches left by your nails a deep contrast. You’re not prepared when he stops you mid turn, throwing his hands around you, pulling you in. You lose your balance and fall right into him, flailing your arms, not knowing whether to push him away or pull him in and it feels--

Safe.

He feels safe. You release a shaky breath and close your eyes, wrapping your arms around him in turn.

The goblet splits into two.


End file.
